Chimera World

Don Denton had walked into the weirdest enigma he had ever encountered. Dead men lived, and ships vanished without sound. And to top everything, when he tried to unravel the puzzle--he found that he had been dead for more than a week.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Don Denton, trouble shooter for the Inter-World Mining Corporation, watched the sailors stowing the supplies aboard his small scout rocket, checking the items from the manifest sheet as they were packed in the storage compartments.

"That takes care of that," he said finally, signing the sheet with his thumbprint. "Now, I'll be on my way."

The Skipper nodded, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose so," he agreed. "Are you sure you won't stay to dinner? I've got a cargo of Martian panyanox that should taste plenty good to you after two months of spacing on vitamins."

Don Denton grinned, scrubbed a heavy hand through the reddish, curly mop of hair that flamed above his craggy face. He shrugged, the leather jacket growing taut across his deceptively wide shoulders.

"Nothing I'd like better," he said, "but I've got orders to get to Venus and find out why the Lanka shipments haven't been coming through on schedule."

"Trouble?" Interest flared in the Skipper's eyes.

Don Denton laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "Probably some space tramp landed and sold the men some Martian Ganto seeds. They're probably nursing such large hangovers that they can't work. I'll just take the supplies on, give the boys a pep talk, then head back for Earth."

"All loaded, Captain," a sailor's voice came from the televisor screen.

Don Denton lounged to his feet. "So long, Captain," he said, "I'll remember that Panyanox invitation, the next time I run into you on Mars."

"Sure, sure, of course!" The Skipper flushed. "Er, ah--, Denton?"

"Yes?" Don Denton turned from the door.

"I've got a passenger I want to transship to Venus."

Don Denton grinned, shook his head. "Sorry, Captain," he said, "but no can do; company rules, you know."

"But this passenger--?"

"No," Denton said decisively. "In the first place, I can't carry passengers on the scouter; and in the second place, I haven't the slightest desire to be holed up with anybody. Sorry, but your passenger will have to get a charter job for the trip."

"What I'm trying to tell you," the Skipper said, "is that Miss Palmer has a Company pass to ride with you."

"Miss Palmer!" The trouble shooter frowned belligerently. "Any relation to Palmer who is the manager on Venus?"

"Daughter, I think."

"Well, you can tell Miss Palmer for me that she's out of luck. Hell, I'll make a bet she's one of two kinds of dames: Either she's the flighty kind who thinks it's just too too divine to explore another planet, or she's the needle-nosed kind who'd drive me nuts with her complaints in half a clock-around!"

"I can assure you that she fits neither of those descriptions," the Skipper said, smiled. "In fact, she's about the nicest bit of meteor fluff that's crossed my rockets in many a day."

"Thank you, Captain," Jean Palmer said amusedly from behind Don Denton. She walked past the trouble shooter, turned to face him squarely. "Woman hater?" she finished quizzically.

Don Denton flushed, his tan deepening, his startlingly blue eyes evading the mocking, brown eyes of the girl. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, his collar suddenly tight and constricting.

"Er--no!" he said defensively, "I--er, well, just don't want any company on my ship."

He felt the flush deepening beneath the level glance of the girl, and hot blood was suddenly pounding at his temples.

The Captain had been right; certainly she didn't fit either of the descriptions Don Denton had given. She was tall, her softly waved crown of hair almost even with the trouble shooter's mouth. And the mannish cut of her plastic dress only served to emphasize the femininity of her body.